


ᴄʜᴇʀʀʏ ᴀɴᴅ ʟɪᴄᴏʀɪᴄᴇ

by Turquoise54



Category: Original Work
Genre: High School, Multi, Realistic, Senior year, student
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2020-12-31 16:03:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21148424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turquoise54/pseuds/Turquoise54
Summary: || reader-insert ||[ yandere! various x f! reader ]❝ɪꜰ ɪ ᴋɴᴇᴡ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴅᴏɪɴɢ, ɪ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅɴ'ᴛ ʙᴇ ʜᴇʀᴇ.❞Senior year of high school. Everyone said to enjoy it. Relish your last year in high school. Look forward to a year in college.If you went to college.So life was a river and you were a little leaf, floating along patiently. Serenely. Enjoying the ride. Happy to be. Here. Anywhere. Happy to laugh with your friends. Happy to have something new to look forward to.❝ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘʀᴏʙʟᴇᴍ, ᴄʜᴇʀʀʏ. ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ꜱᴏ ʜᴀᴘᴘʏ. ꜱᴏ ᴇᴀꜱʏɢᴏɪɴɢ. ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛᴏᴏ ꜱᴡᴇᴇᴛ. ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇꜱ ꜱᴡᴇᴇᴛ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ. ꜱᴏ ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴇʀᴇ. ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴀꜰᴇ.❞[ also on Quotev ]





	1. ▲ i ❝ come inside! we've been waiting for you. ❞

**01** **;** cherry soda

**[ ** _well, they said she was sweet, and they weren't wrong. no, not wrong. just…not right. not…what's the word? adequate? accurate?_ ** ]**

**chapter 1 : take it in—take it slow.**

🍒

* * *

**_The first day of senior year,_ **set for August and starting right about—_now_. It begins with you—with your alarm clock, blaring the first few notes of a pop song you don’t know the name to. It moves with your arm, tip-toeing down your fingers as you turn the alarm clock off—settling in your sleepy joints and stiff muscles as you sit up in bed and stretch.

Monday. The first day of senior year begins on a warm Monday in August, and if the weatherman’s predictions ring true, then the first day of senior year will grow only warmer. Like a sauna.

Hot and humid: it’s the only weather your region knows in summer. Warm and wet, or warm and windy and wet.

Like a hurricane.

The first day of senior year doesn’t want to stay in your bed all morning; it prompts you to open your eyes—shake your head. It watches a yawn roll off your tongue—presses a firm hand against the space between your shoulder blades. Its voice is soft, but it isn’t a voice. It’s a thought—a line of silent text, rolling across the backs of your eyes.

_Well, come on, dearheart. You don’t want to be late. You still have an entire day left to live. But if you can’t find the strength to pull yourself out of bed, darling, I’ll do it for you._

But no, you can pick yourself up just fine, and the first day of senior year lets its hand fall from your back.

The first day of senior year follows you out of bed. It doesn’t wait for you to change into your school uniform—it’s already in the kitchen, grabbing your breakfast and telling your mom and dad good morning. It doesn’t stay to watch you eat; it doesn’t sit patiently at the kitchen table, making small talk with you—congratulating you for making it to senior year.

Your mom does that. She says it with a little smile—a little glint of pride, nearly smothered by fatigue—and her voice catches the grin—gives it a sound somewhere between a laugh and a murmur. “Senior year.” She looks at you, and her eyes are warm and tired. “Wow. Crazy, how the time flies.”

“Don’t go slacking off, now,” your dad adds. He looks up from his worn satchel bag—his work bag, bookbag, and briefcase all rolled into one—and eyes you. His gaze is stern. There’s no exhaustion in his face—dulling his eyes. “You’ve still the rest of the year to go.”

You smile at him—start replying even though there’s still food in your mouth. “I know—I know.” A short, light laugh is pressing against the back of your throat, and when it falls from your lips it sounds happy. Amused. “I didn’t suffer for four years just to screw up on the fifth.”

Silence is your dad’s reply—an unsure silence. A silence that still speaks—without a voice; without a sound. More words—more text, rolling across your eyes.

But now in his voice.

_So you say._

_I’m still not convinced._

_Just be careful, okay?_

Your mother says something—something warm and friendly. Something easy to reply to. Now you smile at her—talk to her—and then the first day of senior year pokes its head back into the kitchen and looks at you—catches your eye over the top of your mom’s head.

_What are you doing just sitting there, sweetheart? Don’t leave me waiting._

You smile at your mother—say something sweet and thoughtful to her—and then you finish off your breakfast. You catch up to the first day of senior year in the bathroom while you’re brushing your teeth.

It’s waiting for you there, and you make eye contact with it after spitting the toothpaste in your mouth into the sink. Its eyes are tired—it shouldn’t have stayed up late last night, but it rarely listens when anyone besides its doctor comments on its health—but there is an excitement brightening its gaze. It’s a spark in its pupils—a corner of its content smile.

_Senior year. It doesn’t feel real, does it, Cherry? Did you think you’d ever get this far?_

Your smile widens, and its grin mirrors yours, and when you blink, it does the same.

“Well, I must’ve,” you reply aloud. A shrug moves your shoulders, and you bring the toothbrush back up to your smiling mouth. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here.”

The first day of senior year smiles at you, and when you finish brushing your teeth, it follows you out of the bathroom and to the front door. Your bookbag is sitting there, already packed and waiting for you, just like your dad—waiting for you to finish getting ready. So you can leave the house; so you can start participating in a year you’ve worked so hard to get to.

“Bye, mom!” You throw your arms around her—envelope her in the warm, goodbye hug you always give her before leaving for school.

She reciprocates, just like always, and then pulls back to give you a soft kiss. Her smile is warm and soft and slow, like syrup. Sweet, maple syrup. “Have a good day, sweetheart,” she pulls you back in—holds on to the hug for a few seconds more, “and don’t forget to enjoy it. You’ve worked so hard to get here. Be proud of yourself, honey.”

A smile creeps across your lips, too strong for you to fight, if you’d wanted to fight it. “I am.”

Then you let go of her because your dad is still waiting for you—the first day of senior year is still waiting for you. You grab your bookbag with one hand, and with the other, you open the front door. Golden sunshine and fresh, outside air greet you, and you make your way down the front porch steps, out to the driveway, where your dad is waiting. He’s already said his goodbyes, but as you settle down in the passenger seat, he offers your mom another wave farewell.

“All buckled up?” he asks, sparing you a glance out of the corner of his eye.

“Buckled and ready for lift-off, _Capitaine_,” you reply, smiling at him.

He rolls his eyes, but you see the corners of a smile in his stern lips. He pulls the car out of the driveway and onto the street, and you turn to watch the cars and trees and buildings roll by as he drives. The radio is turned to a talk show—some news station or other—but you don’t bother to listen. A song is in your head, embroidering your thoughts with colorful music, and it entertains you for the drive.

Maybe this year you’ll finally get a car of your own. Maybe this year you’ll finally start putting your driver’s license to good use.

You’re a senior now. A responsible, mature senior. You can take care of a car.

“Here we are,” your dad says. He pulls up to the side of the school, and you lean across the gear shift to press a kiss against his cheek before getting out. “Good luck, [Name].” He calls after you. “Work hard, and don’t get lazy!”

A laugh falls from your lips. “I know, Dad. Really, I know. Don’t worry.”

He looks at you, and for a moment you see a softness in his hard eyes. “I’ll always worry.”

The line of your smile softens—grows as warm as the morning sunlight. “Bye, Dad.” You close the car door and wave goodbye, and he pulls away like he always does—heading right off to work after dropping you off.

When he’s gone you turn and join the other high school girls making their way into the school building. Most of them walk sluggishly—deliberately, like newly risen zombies, freshly plucked from their nice, warm graves. Some of them you recognize—classmates or strangers you’ve seen glimpses of in the hallway on the way to another class—but some of them you don’t.

You climb up a flight of stairs after getting into the school building, and then you walk down to the end of the hallway, where the science labs are. Two people are already sitting there: your friends, Hannah and Alex. Alex is on his phone—probably playing a game or something—and Hannah’s talking about something crazy she did over the summer.

Just like always.

“Good morning, guys.” You smile and sit down across from them like you always do.

“G’mornin’,” Hannah replies, looking over at you. One of her legs is stretched out, into the hallway, and she moves it so that you aren’t looking at the bottom of her saddle oxford.

Alex glances up from the screen of his phone, sees you, and then looks back down. “Mornin’, Cherry,” he says quickly. He’s in the school uniform—buttoned blouse and pleated skirt and all—but it’s all crumpled and wrinkly.

Your blouse isn’t. It’s crisp and clean because your dad made you sit down and iron your uniform last Saturday.

“Almost forgot we had school today,” Hannah starts saying. She glances at you, and for a moment her pale, blue-gray eyes meet yours. “Had to take, like, five Tylenol just to get out of bed.”

You stare back at her, and a frown creeps across your lips. “Hangover?”

“Yep.” Hannah nods. “Went to a bar last night.”

You lean back—press your spine against the wall. Your dad would probably kill you if ever woke up with a hangover. Not that it really matters; you don’t really like the taste of alcohol. It burns, and wine has a funny aftertaste, and Hannah’s claimed more than once that beer tastes like piss. “They didn’t card you?”

“Nope.” Hannah laughs a little. “A good thing, too, because I’d forgotten my fake I.D.”

“_Is_ it a good thing?” You sound a little like a disappointed mother when you ask, and Hannah notices. “Is it really?”

The brightness in your friend’s eyes flickers, but she still smiles. She’s used to you—to the way you worry for her. Like always. “Well, the owner knows me, y’know? My dad and uncle go there all the time.”

“Hey, everybody," a new voice interjects. It's a familiar voice—a tired voice.

You look up, and another smile paints your face, chasing away your frown. Katherine is standing there, setting her bag on the floor, but she looks…different. Her hair—it’s her hair. She’s cut it: now the curly, dark brown locks fall just below her chin. They used to be longer; they used to brush against her shoulders—hover just above her clavicle.

“Hey.” You watch her sit down—watch how her new, short hair moves with her. You’ve never seen her with short hair; it’s new—foreign. A deviation from the usual. “You cut your hair?”

She settles next to you and crosses her legs. There are lines in her face, and her eyes are lidded—droopy, like she hadn’t gotten enough sleep. “Yeah.” She touches her hair—runs her fingers through the thick curls. “I was getting a little tired of it. Now it’s actually curly.”

“It looks good, Kit-Kat,” Hannah comments. She sits up a little—moves her leg so that it's sticking back out into the hallway. “It suits you.”

“Yeah, it really does,” you add, nodding.

Katherine smiles. Satisfaction brightens her dark blue eyes, and the warmth chases away the heaviness in her eyelids—the hardness to the lines in her face. “Thanks.” She lets her hand fall, and it rests comfortably in her lap in the crease of her plaid skirt. “Y’all ready for the assembly today?”

Hannah nods vehemently, and even Alex offers a quick shake of his head. “I’ve waited five years for this,” Hannah replies, frowning a little, “of course I’m ready.”

“I’m ready to burn this skirt,” Alex remarks, looking up again from his phone. His lips are curled into a smile, and his tone is light—jocular—but there’s a seriousness in his dark eyes—a hardness that makes you wonder whether or not he’s really joking.

You can’t blame him if he isn’t.

So you don’t.

“It’s gonna be so weird,” you start, your eyes shifting to the ceiling—the familiar ceiling, with its white mineral fiber tiles, “seeing everybody in gray. We’ve worn purple for so long…”

Your voice drifts off, and the warm, cheerful smile curling your lips begins to fade. Suddenly, the first day of senior year seems too close to you—too intimate and friendly. But it shouldn’t be, should it? You’re not a senior, you’re an eighth grader. You’re an eighth grader and you can’t be a senior because if you’re a senior then that means this is it—this is your last year of high school.

Your last year with your friends. Your last year getting dropped off in the morning by your dad. Your last year sitting by the door to the science labs and listening to Hannah recount all the wild things she’s done.

Your last year of the usual—of the “just like always”.

Oh, God.

It really is here, isn’t it? Senior year. You’re going to be graduating this spring. You’re going to be moving on—moving away.

To college.

Katherine nudges you with her elbow, and her touch—the feel of something suddenly against your skin—brings you out of your thoughts. Your gaze falls to her—to her eyes. Soft but bright—understanding but eager. “It’s just something else to get used to, Cherry.”

You look at her—into her pretty dark blue eyes—and then you smile. It’s a sweet smile—a bright, cheerful smile that reaches all the way to corners of your eyes. “Yeah.” You laugh a little—let a breathless, light giggle fall from your lips. A laugh is all you can manage; a laugh is the only way to express everything in your chest—all the hope and fear and exhilaration blossoming in your soft, tender heart. “I guess so.”

Because you will get used to it. You will relish it and familiarize yourself with it and absorb all that you can from it—from this last year with your wonderful friends.

And it will be strange—and it will be familiar.

It will be all you wanted and more.

Much, much more.


	2. ▲ ii ❝ isn't it nice to be back? ❞

**02** **;** cherry lollipop

**[ ** _i, um, wasn’t really that close with her. we shared a couple of classes, and i thought she was nice but…but we weren’t, like, friends, or anything._ ** ]**

**chapter 2 : get on over here! we've got plenty of room.**

🍒

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**_The morning bell rings when it always does:_ **at exactly 7:45. You and Katherine get up at the same time—shortly after the tone sounds—but Hannah and Alex are a little slower. Just like always.

Alex shoves his phone into his bag and then quickly looks up, his dark eyes flitting from you to Katherine and back again. For a second your heart rises. Joy—happiness at seeing him care enough about staying out of trouble to put his phone away. “We’re going to homeroom first, right?” he asks. Uncertainty is swimming in his gaze, and it almost sinks into his lips—pulls the line of his mouth into the shape of a frown.

“Yeah, of course,” you reply. When you speak, there’s a questioning lilt to your voice—a befuddled inquiry underlying your words—and a look of confusion clouds your eyes.

Hannah frowns at Alex and raises one inquiring, blonde eyebrow, and when she speaks, disbelief colors her tone. “This is year number five, Applesauce. How many times have you done this again?”

“Too many,” Alex replies curtly, “and I was just making sure.” He grabs his bag and stands up, but even with the extra inch the saddle oxfords offer, he still barely manages to reach your shoulder. “This school’s got a thing for changing shit at the last minute.”

Katherine snorts, and something like a frown settles on her lips. “It’s St. Marie’s—what do you expect?” She rolls her eyes and then shakes her head, and when she looks up again her eyes find yours. “Anyway, I gotta get going—homeroom’s in the third building. See y’all at lunch. Peace.”

She throws up a peace sign before turning, and you offer her a wave in return. “Godspeed.” Your gaze flees from Katherine to Hannah, and you smile. “We’ve got homeroom together, right?”

“Yeah.” Hannah glances down at the schedule the school had mailed her—the one that lists classes but makes no mention of teachers or room numbers. “Twelve _C_?”

You nod, and your smile widens. Your first year sharing a homeroom with one of your friends. Who knew it would also be your last? “That’s the one.”

Alex slips the strap of his bag over his shoulder and starts to head away from you and Hannah, but he chirps a short but warm, “_Adiós_, dipshits,” before leaving.

Like always, Hannah rolls her eyes and frowns a little at his term of endearment, but you can see a smile in her blue-gray eyes. “You’re an ass,” she calls after him. Her voice is loud and clear and sharp, just like the alcohol she likes to drink.

Alex laughs. “Love you too, Ham.” He turns his head to shout the reply over his shoulder, and you see some of the underclassmen walking closest to him jump when he yells. The bolder, saltier ones shoot him a glare when his back is to them, but the others just duck their heads and hurry on, too tired to bother hating a stranger with a boyish haircut.

Hannah shakes her head, and if you hadn’t moved to stand a little to the front of her, her long blonde ponytail would have smacked you in the face. “Sometimes I just wanna punch that child.”

Your gaze moves to her, and even though you know she’s joking, you still feel the need to say something in response, so you offer a quick but hopeful, “Please don’t.” Then you start walking, and Hannah follows, easily falling in step with you.

She and you walk side-by-side to homeroom, and when you enter the space functioning as your new home for the school year, she leads you to the group of desks placed nearest to the door. It’s a little pod of three, and you take the seat that has its back to the door while Hannah decides to plop herself down in the one facing the teacher’s desk.

Shortly after making herself comfortable in her new seat, Hannah pauses. A confused look crosses her face—pulls the corners of her lips down and causes a crease to form in the skin of her pale forehead—and she tilts her head to one side and then the other. She sniffs the air, frowns, turns her head to the side and sniffs again. “What’s that smell?”

You list your head to the side and shoot her a curious look before inhaling just as she did. Then you pause, sniff the air again, and contemplate. “Crayons?” you propose tentatively. It’s the only scent that seems to match the one hanging in the air of the small classroom, though you will admit that the smell of colored wax isn’t an exact match for the odd scent lingering in your nasal passages. “Crayons and bleach?”

“That’s a weird combo,” Hannah says. A frown rests on her lips, but a thoughtful look brightens her clear eyes. “I was thinking Lysol, maybe. Lysol and unscented candles.”

“So…crayons.” You lean forward in your seat a little. “Just the good kind, though. Crayola crayons and Lysol.”

While you were talking, a few more seniors had wandered into the classroom and quietly picked for themselves seats from the ones offered them by the desk arrangement, but now the most recent addition to your homeroom class pauses in the doorway and looks around.

“Where’s that weird smell coming from?” you hear the newcomer ask. For some strange reason, you don’t recognize the voice, so you turn your head to look at her, hoping that maybe her face will jog your memory.

You might be shit with names, but you never forget a face.

The girl standing in the doorway to classroom 1207 is fairly tall—five eight maybe, or five nine. Her hair is a rich reddish-brown, almost like cinnamon, and she’s twisted it up into something that just barely passes for a bun. She’s got a round face and low cheekbones, but her nose is deceptively strong—Roman-like, even.

You’ve never seen her before. In all five years that you’ve been going to this school, you have never, _ever_ seen this round-faced, messy-haired, sort of tall chick standing in the doorway to your homeroom.

“It’s the classroom,” Hannah answers.

The girl you’ve never seen before looks over at you and Hannah, and the befuddled look in her eyes sours to one of faint discontent. “So I’m gonna be smelling this for the rest of the year?” Her voice is bright—high-pitched, almost, like it had stopped maturing after sophomore year—but contains a faint warmness, like someone took one of those yellow bathtub rubber duckies and lit it on fire.

Hannah shrugs. “Probably, yeah.”

Rubber-ducky girl sighs, but it sounds more like a high-pitched groan. “Great. Loving this place already.” She moves further into the classroom and sits herself down in the last open seat in your little trio—the desk right across from you.

Your eyes follow her, and once she’s seated you chance a glance at Hannah. Maybe you could try and ask _her_ for the girl’s name? But no—that would be too risky. She’s literally sitting right across from you, and you’re no ninja; you’d get caught the second you open your mouth. And how embarrassing would that be, failing to know someone’s name—failing to even _recognize _them—after going to school with them for four years?

How thick of a rock do you even live under?

No, it’s better if you just wait—wait for your homeroom teacher to come and hand out schedules. You’ll learn Rubber-ducky girl’s name then, when you won’t have to worry about suffering such a terrible blow to your pride.

While you were devising the most covert way to uncover Rubber-ducky girl’s name, your gaze had fallen to the surface of your desk, so you lift it again—let it settle on the unfamiliar girl sitting across from you. Your eyes meet hers; she’s looking at you—watching you with bright, gray-green eyes. Eyes that seem a little wide; eyes that seem to sparkle with surprise.

A flush rises to Rubber-ducky girl’s cheeks when you catch her staring, and she quickly glances away—turns to look at Hannah instead.

“Hey—do y’all know where our homeroom teacher is?” Rubber-ducky girl asks. Her voice sounds a little higher—a little squeakier. A little more like a little rubber ducky. “I’m pretty sure homeroom is only supposed to last, like—uh, fifteen minutes.”

Hannah shakes her head. “Nope. Don’t even know who it is.”

“Well, announcements haven’t started yet, so I think we’re fine,” you pipe up, “and I’m pretty sure we have the acting teacher for homeroom—Mrs. Albert-Hedley?” You move to your bag and unzip one of the compartments, and then you pull out the paper the school mailed you. “It says it here—see?”

Hannah leans forward to peer more closely at the paper, but Rubber-ducky girl remains rooted in place. She still won’t meet your eye, but you think she glances at you—just for a moment.

“Oh, yeah—it sure does.” Hannah nods, and just as the words are falling from her lips the door to classroom 1207 opens and a short, red-haired woman walks in.

“I’ve got y’all’s schedules,” she starts saying, but then the PA system crackles to life, and the familiar voice of a member of the administrative staff interrupts her. You and the rest of your homeroom class immediately rise, heads already turned to eye the cross hanging at the front of the classroom.

_“Would teachers and students please stand and joins us in the sign of the cross.”_ A pause, waiting for everyone to get ready—like always—and then,_ “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit…”_

The voice walks you through the morning prayer, the pledge to the flag, and then you and your classmates sit down as the woman on the PA system welcomes you back to school and starts listing all the other morning announcements for the day.

_“There is a p.m. assembly today, so at the end of homeroom, the schedule is as follows: first period, second period, first lunch, second lunch, third period, and then the assembly. Grades twelve, eleven, and ten—homerooms A to G—will have first lunch. Second lunch will be…”_

“Oh, thank God,” you hear Rubber-ducky girl mumble under her breath. “I’m _starving_.”

The woman on the PA system continues for a minute more before concluding with a succinct, _“There are no more announcements. Have a nice day.”_ Then you hear a click as she hangs up the phone, and the intercom goes silent.

Just like always.

“Okay. Uh, hey everybody,” the red-haired woman starts saying, drawing your attention to her, “welcome back. Congratulations on becoming seniors. I’m Mrs. Albert-Hedley, y’all’s homeroom teacher for the year.” She’s standing behind the desk placed there specifically for her, and she pauses for a moment to look down at the small stack of papers she’s put down on top of it. “I’ve got y’all’s schedules here. Just, y’know, come up when I call your name.”

She starts listing off the names printed at the top of the schedules in front of her. Familiar names—names you’ve heard called at least a dozen times over the course of your high school career. She says yours, and you go to get your schedule from her, but you don’t read it—not until you hear Rubber-ducky girl’s name get called.

“Marianne Snyder?”

You’ve never heard that name before.

Rubber-ducky girl gets up and makes her way over to Mrs. Albert-Hedley, and you use that time to lean over to Hannah. “Is she new or do I just have God-awful memory?” you ask her quietly.

Hannah glances up from her schedule. There’s confusion in her eyes, and they dart wildly around the room for a moment before settling on you. “Who?”

“Marianne,” you whisper sharply. You spare a glance in the direction of the teacher’s desk and see that she’s heading back to you, schedule in hand and gaze down. “I’ve never seen her before. Is she a transfer?”

Hannah’s eyes move to Marianne and then back to you, and then Hannah blinks. “No. She came in, like, ninth grade, I think. She’s not a transfer.”

Confusion causes you to frown, and you furrow your brows. Marianne is sitting back down and you should drop the topic, but you can’t stop yourself from making one last remark: “But I’ve never seen her before.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Marianne look up—spare a glance at Hannah before looking back at you. You think you see a spark of curiosity brighten her gaze, but you can’t be sure; the only view you currently have of her is peripheral.

Hannah just shrugs. She doesn’t seem concerned—even offers a joking chuckle. “Well, your memory _is _shit, so…”

“Yeah.” You start nodding. “That’s true.”

“What are y’all talking about?” Marianne asks. She’s leaning forward in her seat a little, and this time, she meets your eyes without hesitance. The curiosity you thought you saw shimmering in her gaze is still there, burning like a vibrant, hungry flame.

“It’s nothing.” You wave her off—look away from her, to your schedule. What class do you have first? “Just trying to confirm something.”

English—you have English first. Cool.

You can’t screw that up.

The bell rings, and you stand, folding your schedule so you can see the name of your next class and the room number.

“See you at lunch, Ham,” you say to your friend and then, not wanting to seem rude, you turn to Marianne and add, “Bye, Marianne.”

“Oh, bye.” The girl looks a little surprised—delightfully surprised—and she smiles eagerly at you. The grin is bright and warm, like the color yellow. “And, y’know, you can just call me Mary, or May. Either’s fine.”

You pause for a moment, stare at her, and then return her smile. “Oh. Okay.” You nod your head. “I’ll try to remember. But, um, just so you know, I’m not really the best at names.”

Mary doesn’t look concerned; she just keeps smiling at you, gray-green eyes all bright and crinkled at the corners. There’s still a flush to her cheeks—a redness that you notice but choose to ignore. “It’s fine—I get it. I’m not that good at names, either.”

“Oh. Guess we have something in common, then.” The second bell rings—the one that gives everyone in the second and first buildings the OK to leave class—and you perk up and turn away from the sort of tall girl. “Okay—gotta go. Talk to you later, Mary.”

Mary smiles a little wider. She looks giddy—eager. Energetic, like a kid hyped on caffeine and simple carbs. Maybe her first period is an elective class? “Bye, [Name].”


	3. ▲ iii ❝ wow! you look so nice! ❞

**03** **;** _cherry tomato_

**[ ** _i just…i just can’t believe it. she was always so—so nice, y’know? i just—i can’t understand why anyone would wanna do something like that to her._ ** ]**

**chapter 3 :** **c’mon—don’t be shy! give us a look.**

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**_Lunch begins as it usually does,_ **but this time you’re sitting in the cafeteria at one of the tables a group of last year’s seniors had called their own. It’s quite a change—being able to sit in the cafeteria. The space is limited and loud—overflowing with colorful talk and miscellaneous bodies.

“So, I was thinking about having a party this weekend,” Hannah says. She’s eating something from the café—a sandwich. Tuna, or maybe chicken salad. You can’t really tell—you’re sitting sort of across from her, in between Alex and Katherine. “Nothing too big; just a small little…celebration, y’know?”

Alex is munching on a mozzarella stick when Hannah finishes talking, but he has the decency to swallow before opening his mouth. “Where at?” he asks. He has to almost shout the question—yell it in order to be heard over the din.

“My house. Where else?” Hannah answers. “My parents are outta town.”

Without warning, someone from the table next to you lets out an ear-piercing scream, and you glance over at them, surprise making your eyes wide. The shriek came from a table of seniors—your classmates.

You would’ve expected something like that from an underclassman—not a peer.

“Jesus Christ,” you hear Alex mutter. His expression is pinched, and his nose is wrinkled in sour distaste, like he just ate something bitter. “The fuck is wrong with them?”

You shrug and pluck off the stem of one of the cherries you packed for lunch. “They’re probably just excited,” you say, looking over at Alex. You pop the cherry in your mouth and then immediately regret doing so. The pit grinds uncomfortably between two of your molars, and you squeeze your eyes shut for a short moment before spitting the seed out. “It’s what we get for sitting in the cafeteria, I guess.”

“Can I bring Ryan?” Katherine asks. She’s eating oatmeal—you can smell it: green apple and cinnamon, bought from the café.

Hannah turns back to look at Katherine and takes a sip from her bottle of sweet tea. “Sure. Why not? I was gonna invite some of my friends, too.” Her gaze shifts to you and Alex, and then she asks, “Y’all cool with that? Or do you want it to be, like, only an us thing?”

You cut the next cherry in half—make sure to dig the pit out before shoving it into your mouth. “I don’t mind,” you reply with an indifferent shrug.

“I’m down, but isn’t your boyfriend kind of a fuckboy, though?” Alex asks. He looks over at Katherine, and then his eyes widen and he adds, “No offense, Kit-Kat.”

“It’s cool.” Katherine’s face is blank—devoid of any inkling of irritation or anger. She knows Ryan’s history; all of your friends do, even you. You heard about him last year, in English class, before she and he had even started dating. Back then he was sort-of dating Olivia Hunter, a classmate of yours, but then she sort-of cheated on him with a college dude.

Katherine nods her head a little, and a curl of her dark hair falls out from behind her ear to brush against her cheek. She plays around a bit with her oatmeal and then looks up and meets Alex’s apologetic gaze. “He was, but he really isn’t like that anymore, y’know? He’s gotten better.”

Alex hums. He looks a little surprised, but then the shock fades from his eyes and he goes back to eating. “Huh. Good to know.”

The bell that ends first lunch rings several minutes later, and after saying goodbye to Alex and Katherine, you and Hannah make your way to homeroom. When you get to the classroom, you see Mary already there, sitting idly at her desk.

“Hey.” You offer her a little wave as you move to sit down, and she all but readily returns the gesture with a bright, eager smile blossoming on her lips.

“Hi.” Her gray-green eyes seem to sparkle, and something pinkish dusts her round cheeks. “How was, uh, lunch?”

You pull out your school planner and flip to the current week. “Same as it always is, I guess.”

Mary nods, but you don’t see the gesture; you’re looking down at your planner, and then your gaze flees to your bookbag as you lean down to get out your pencil pouch. Time to decorate—to organize the layout of your planner before the teachers start drowning you in school work.

God knows you won’t have another chance.

“Were y’all, uh, sitting…inside, today?” Mary asks. Her voice is quiet, now—tentative—and grows quieter when the rest of your homeroom class starts filing in. But there’s still a brightness to it—a lightness.

Hannah pauses and looks over at Mary, and a curious look flashes in her eyes. “Yeah, we were. How’d you know?”

“Oh, well, I didn’t see you,” Mary replies quickly. She sounds a little dismissive—defensive, even. “My group—we sit outside, by the trees. In that area that used to be grass?”

A frown decorates Hannah’s lips, and then she shrugs and turns her gaze back to the book she was reading. “Oh. Yeah. We used to sit near there.”

You glance up, and you catch Mary nodding along with Hannah’s reply. She’s staring at your friend, and the look in her eyes is cautious and critical. “Yeah. You did.”

For a short, fleeting moment, Mary narrows her eyes, and then she looks away from Hannah. Her gaze catches on yours, and her eyes immediately widen. Surprise flashes across her face—cold, pale surprise—and her glare softens and then brightens.

You blink at her, raise one questioning eyebrow, and then return your gaze to your planner. You think you’ll go with a gray theme for this week, to honor the day you get your gray senior sweaters.

You spend all of your study period doing that—organizing the layout of your planner. You get all the way to November before the first bell rings, and when it does you start packing up—putting all your stuff away. But you keep your new sweater out—your homeroom representative went to get them from the office, and then she handed them out to the class during the study period.

The fabric is gray and soft—foreign in your hands but familiar to your eyes. You remember seeing other seniors wearing them. Former seniors. You remember walking through the hallways of St. Marie’s on your first day of school, back in eighth grade. You remember seeing those seniors in their nice gray sweaters, looking like women. Responsible, mature women. Women capable of anything.

Grown-up women.

How far away that had seemed; how impossible you’d thought it—looking like them someday.

But now here you are.

When you’re done putting your things away you stand, and then the second bell rings, and you start making your way out of the classroom. But this time, you leave without saying goodbye—to Mary or Hannah.

You have AP U.S. Government for third period, and the class passes rather smoothly—rather delightfully, really. The only downside is that it’s on the third floor of the third building, but still, better the third floor than the fourth.

Then the bell rings, and suddenly you aren’t thinking about U.S. government anymore. Suddenly you’re looking at your classmates—the handful of your graduating class that just so happened to share third period AP Gov. with you—and they’re looking back at you and for a second you know exactly what they’re thinking.

Because you’re thinking it too.

The assembly.

You’re going to be seniors. Officially seniors. You’re going to be putting on your senior sweaters in front of all of the school and then you’re going to do your senior cheer and then everyone will know—everyone will know that you’re seniors. That you’re graduating. That you’re going off to college.

That you’re just on the verge of growing up.

Becoming those women that used to scare you—that used to fill you with such awe and hope.

The dream that you’d be just like them one day.

Today.

The second bell rings, and you and your classmates exit the room—pour out into the hallway with your new gray sweaters in hand. You run down the stairs as quickly as you can with teachers and the students of four other grades filling the staircase, and when you make it to the gym where the assembly is being held you run to the stands reserved for the senior class.

Your class.

You find your friends, and you join them. Their eyes are bright. Their excitement is like electricity, crackling in their bodies—coursing out from them to fill the air and all that which surrounds.

They’re chatting—talking about everything and nothing.

Seniors. You’re going to be seniors.

And then the principal stands and advances to the podium, and her movements send a hush washing over your grade. The talking ceases, but the excitement refuses to fall silent. It crackles and pops—hums just under your skin, in time with your heartbeat. You can feel it in your toes—buzzing in the tips of your fingers.

A senior.

You’re a senior.

The principal welcomes you back. She talks about God, about faith. She says something about thanking Him for the new year, and for all your smiling faces.

And then she looks over at you—at your class.

“Seniors,” she starts.

The hum grows. You can hear it in your ears; you can feel it in your chest.

It sounds like your heart.

“Present yourselves.”

Screams. Everyone’s screaming and standing and throwing on their gray sweaters. They shriek and yell and make as much noise as they can. Someone grabs you—drowns you in a giant bear hug that is tight and warm and welcome. It’s Katherine—you barely manage to make out her face through all the gray clouding your vision—but even if it wasn’t Katherine you would’ve hugged them back—clutched tightly onto them and screamed with them because you’re seniors, now.

And everyone knows it.

“Cherry, oh my God.” Katherine is gasping when she speaks—wheezing like she’s just run a marathon. “We’re seniors now, Cherry. Jesus Christ.”

“I know.” You laugh, but you’re gasping, too. You’re struggling to breathe and shaking and it’s awful but great, too. Adrenaline, rushing through your veins—making your head light and your knees wobbly. “I know.”

And then your senior mascot breaks away from your class—rushes off from the bleachers to stand on the gym floor in front of you. She brings her hands to her face—cups them around her mouth—and then she screams the first line to your class cheer.

You and the rest of your class join her—stomp and clap and scream the cheer you’ve had four years to memorize.

And when you’re done, the juniors do theirs. And then the sophomores, the freshmen, and finally the eighth grade, who do their best to yell out a cheer they’ve only known for a day.

You watch them, and you can’t help laughing to yourself. You remember being like them—confused and scared and trying your absolute best not to look like an idiot, even though you definitely did.

But one day they’ll be like you, standing in a gray senior sweater, watching the underclassmen try their best to recreate the senior’s adrenaline-boosted war-cry.

When they’re done you all file out—yeet back to your third-period classroom to grab your things and leave.

But you stay behind. At first, it’s so you can take pictures with your friends—so you can hug them and look at them and bask in the realization that yes, you are all seniors. But eventually, they leave—hug you goodbye and ask if you need a ride home, even though you’ve always told them no—and you’re left alone.

Because you don’t have a car; because you have to wait for someone to come pick you up.

Even though you can drive.

Even though you’re a senior.

After your friend’s leave, you head to the front of the school. You take your phone out—turn it on and check for any new messages.

** jellyben ❤️: **

R u out yet?

_[sent at 3:20 pm]_

** :You **

why yes Jeeves.

school did so conclude at around 3:15 or so

_[sent at 3:40 pm]_

wouldst thou now kindly come around to fetch me?

_[sent at 3:41 pm]_

** jellyben ❤️: **

Great

Hope u know i read all of that in a british accent

_[sent at 3:42 pm]_

** :You **

how wonderful.

twas almost like i, i dunno, wanted u to read it like that

_[sent at 3:43 pm]_

** jellyben ❤️: **

Weirdo

_[sent at 3:43 pm]_

** :You **

it do taketh one to know one, sire

_[sent at 3:44 pm]_

** jellyben ❤️: **

Right.

At least this weirdo can drive.

_[sent at 3:45 pm]_

** :You **

i can drive!

_[sent at 3:45 pm]_

i just no have car.

_[sent at 3:46 pm]_

You frown at the screen of your phone and wait for your friend to reply, but you aren’t too upset—you can’t be, not with him. Not when he's your ticket home; not when you've been best buds since elementary school.

“Oh, hey!”

You recognize the voice—high-pitched and bright. Mary. You look up from your phone and turn your head, and there she is—walking out of the school building, heading toward you with a bright smile curling her lips.

“Hey.” You smile at her and wave, and she takes it as an invitation to talk to you—to engage in conversation.

“What do you think about the new sweaters?” she asks. She’s got hers on, just like you. It looks odd on her—strange. It makes her look older—sharpens some of the childish roundness in her face. But you likely look just as odd—as out of place.

You glance down at yourself, shrug, and then offer her another smile. “It’s kinda weird, not gonna lie.”

A redness rises to Mary's cheeks, but still, you ignore it. In fact, you hardly notice it at all. “How weird?” She moves a little closer to you, and you ignore that, too.

“I dunno.” You frown a little and list your head to the side. “About a Twilight Zone, maybe?”

Your phone buzzes, and out of force of habit, you look at it. You got a new message.

** jellyben ❤️: **

So I be here, but where be u?

_[sent at 4:01 pm]_

“Who’s that?” you hear Mary ask.

You don’t look at her; you stare down at your phone and type a quick response. “Oh, it’s a…just a friend of mine.” You hit send and then look back up at Mary—offer her another smile. “He’s kinda my ride home.”

** You : **

where do you be?

_[sent at 4:03 pm]_

“You can’t drive?” Mary looks a little surprised, and something like shame rises in your chest. It’s hot and thick—humid, like the air.

“I can drive,” you reply. Your tone is a little hard—a little defensive—and you pause to swallow the sharpness before continuing. “I just…don’t have a car.”

Mary blinks, and something like regret flashes in her eyes. “Oh.”

Your phone buzzes again, and you glance back down at it.

** jellyben ❤️: **

I’m across the street.

You best start walkin or I’mma be leavin yo ass

_[sent at 4:05 pm]_

** You : **

no don’t leave meeeee

_[sent at 4:06 pm]_

You pocket your phone and then offer Mary an apologetic smile. “Sorry, but I gotta go,” you say. “My ride’s here.” You wave the girl goodbye as you’re walking away. “See you tomorrow, Mary.”

Mary watches you go, and the brightness in her eyes fades—pales until it’s the same color as her dull gray sweater. But you don’t see the change—you don’t notice the way her lips curl downwards, pulled by a heavy, somber weight. “Bye…”


	4. ▲ iv ❝ leaving already? ❞

**04** **;** _cherry jelly beans_

**[ ** _you never really…saw her, after school. like, she didn’t really…hang around. i mean, she was in a coupla clubs, yeah, but who wasn’t?_ ** ]**

**chapter 4 :** **but we were just getting started!**

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**_It takes around a minute or two to get across the street_. **You wait for the nearer cars to pass—watch with careful, unsure eyes as the drivers speed through the school zone—and then, in the break, you make your move. You walk as fast as your legs will allow you to without breaking into a sprint, like you’re running from someone but trying to be super casual about it.

The guy you named “jellyben” in your phone contacts is waiting for you when you get to the other side of the road. He sits in a car—his car: an old Honda Civic, black and recently washed. His head is bowed—dark hair falling to cover his brow—and his eyes are peering down at something in his lap.

You raise your hand and give the passenger’s side window a soft little rap, and the sound startles him—makes him hurry to hide whatever it is he’s looking at. His head rises, and his eyes flee to you, and the surprise decorating his face wanes—softens at the sight of your familiar face.

Benjamin. That’s his name. He looks like a Benjamin, with his wide, pretty brown eyes and short, narrow face. He has freckles—faint, soft brown freckles that are made invisible by certain lights—and when he smiles the grin is always lopsided—always leaning more to the left, like a smirk.

You wave at him—offer him a playful smile—and he rolls his eyes at you. His gaze is narrowed again—sharp, now that he knows that it’s you who stands outside his car.

A dull clicking sound catches your attention, and you look away from Benjamin and move to the back of the car. The trunk is open now—unlocked by the guy himself—and you slip your bookbag off and stuff it into the compartment. The air in the trunk is hot and stuffy and smells like rubber and fabric. Benjamin’s things are already lying inside, pushed up next to the spare tire and the carjack and a bunch of other junk he’s yet to go through.

You grab your phone and bring the hood of the trunk down. It closes with a hard push, and then you’re walking back to the front of the car—pulling the passenger’s door open and sliding in. A blast of cool air hits you—washes over your skin and bleeds through your blouse—and your relief is palpable—breathable.

God bless the inventor of air-conditioning.

“What took you so long?” Benjamin asks. Even with a questioning lilt, his voice is deep—mature sounding. Like his dad’s—like a grown man’s. He’s even got facial hair, or he would, if he didn’t shave—if his school didn’t require him to.

Puberty: sometimes it hits like a pillow to the face, other times it’s more like a train.

In one motion, you pull the car door close and grab the seat belt before tossing Benjamin a look. “How many cars d’you think stop for one kid?”

Benjamin lifts one dark-haired eyebrow and stares back at you. There’s a lack of amusement in his brown eyes, but they’re still warm—dull, but content. “Why does that matter?”

“Uh,” you squint at him, and he looks away—puts the car into drive, “because I could, like, get hit?”

He’s looking ahead—at the road—but you catch a small twitch in the muscles of his face. His lips start to curl—to move hesitantly into the shape of an amused half-smile. Always a half-smile. Like he’s only ever half-content. Half-happy. “Not if you run.”

You laugh, but it’s a breathy chuckle—hollow, like it’s the only appropriate response you can muster. “Running wouldn’t do jack against a car going fifty, Beans.”

Benjamin’s half-smile widens a little—grazes the bottom of his dull brown eyes. His gaze looks a little brighter, now—a little fuller—and it grows only warmer the more you talk—the more you engage with him. Like he enjoys it—talking with you. Spending time with you.

Well, he should. It’s only natural; you’ve been best friends since kindergarten—since the day you walked up to him and asked him to be your friend. Because you’d both been wearing matching shoes, and that was clearly a sign from God that you were meant to be best friends.

“Nice sweater, by the way.” He changes the topic, but you start smiling. Beaming—pride and joy swelling and mixing all up inside of you.

You place one arm down on the armrest and lean slowly toward him, and you turn your head and look at your other arm—lift it and turn it this way and that to catch all the different ways the light shines on the sleeve of your gray cardigan.

“Why, _thank_ you.” Your voice is almost a purr—a self-satisfied hum sweetened by a pleased smile. “It_ is_ pretty nice, isn’t it? Very…_soft_.” You pull the sleeve of your sweater down until it covers your fingers, and then you lean toward him—raise your hand over the armrest. “You wanna feel?”

Benjamin spares you a quick sideways glance out of the corner of his eye and then nods his head at the road. “I’m kinda driving.”

You look at the road and then back at him, and then you shrug. “I’ll just do it for you, then.” You reach across the armrest and give his cheek a soft pat with the sleeve of your new sweater, and then you smile. “See? _Soft_.”

Benjamin pauses for a brief moment and then swallows. “I barely felt anything, but okay,” he mumbles quietly a second later.

“Oh.” You stare at him for a half a minute, and then another smile curls your lips. “Well, then I shall just give thine cheek another pat, sour bean man.”

You lift your arm again and stroke the skin of Benjamin’s cheek with the cuff of your gray sweater. The driver in the car next over happens to choose this time to glance your way and catches just the finest view of the whole thing. Though seeing what looks to be a young woman clad in a school girl’s uniform caressing the cheek of a man with a five o’clock shadow in a car at a red light isn’t necessarily the strangest—or most intimate—interaction the driver has ever had the misfortune of witnessing while in a car, it’s certainly uncomfortable, and they don’t hesitate to look away.

Maybe they should stop ogling other people at red lights.

“Doth thee see now, mine jelly child?” you ask, smiling brightly. You let your hand fall from Benjamin’s cheek and lean back in your seat.

Benjamin pauses for a moment and really seems to contemplate the question—starts slowly nodding his head while turning on his signal to tell the cars behind him that he’s going to make a left turn in one hundred feet—but then he just rolls his eyes and says, “Your sweater’s fine, Cherry.”

Faux outrage flashes across your face, and you force your lips to form the largest disapproving frown they can muster. You gasp. “Thou hath insulted the Great Cherry.” You try to make your voice loud and booming, but it comes out high and squeaky instead. “Mine awesome sweater doth be worth far more than a simple ‘fine’, Lord Jelly Man.” You start shaking your finger at him like you’re trying to cast some evil spell. “Thou shalt regret this day. Thou hath made an enemy of the Great and Mighty Cherry!”

Your friend just laughs. “Right. Sure.” He parks the car and looks at you, and his brown eyes almost soften. “Here’s your stop, O Great and Mighty One.”

You frown at him—shake your fist like it’ll do something. “This isn’t the end, Jelly Man. I shall have my revenge.”

Phone in hand, you open the car door and slide out, but after grabbing your things from the trunk, a thought comes to your mind, and you walk back around to the passenger’s side window to knock on it. A look of surprise flashes across Benjamin’s face when he sees you standing there, bag in hand, and he lowers the window.

“You forget something?” he asks, leaning over the armrest to look at you.

“Surprisingly enough, no.” You lean down toward the window—almost stick your face through it. “Actually, uh, one of my friend’s is having this small little party this weekend, and I wanted to know if maybe you wanted to come?” You rest your elbow on the car door and lean your cheek against your fist. “I mean, I dunno if I can bring a guest, but it’s just an idea, y’know?”

Benjamin looks at you. There’s something in his eyes—something bright and warm and strangely hopeful. Strangely surprised. Like he hadn’t expected this—hadn’t expected you to invite him anywhere.

Especially not to a party.

But he’s your friend. Why wouldn’t you invite him somewhere?

And then the look is hidden—covered by that dullness—and Benjamin licks his lips nervously, swallows, and looks away. “I dunno, Cherry. I’m kinda busy this weekend.” He glances back at you, and then he smiles. It’s another half-smile, but this time, it almost seems to stretch into a full, gleaming grin. “But, hey, if you need a ride, O Great and Mighty One—that I can do.”

Disappointment rises in your chest—translucent and foggy—but you try to swallow it. You didn’t want to make him feel bad just because he couldn’t come to a silly old party. “Oh. Okay. You sure, Beans?”

Benjamin nods, and his half-smile is warm. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

You pull away from the car. “Alright. Well, see you tomorrow, Jeeves.” You wave. “Unless you wanna come over for like dinner or something.”

A laugh falls from Benjamin’s lips and, before rolling up the window and pulling away, he replies with an almost cheerful, “Bye, Cherry.”

You watch him drive away, and then when he’s gone—disappearing down the block like he always does—you turn away.

The first day of senior year is waiting for you at the door—sitting patiently on the porch with its legs crossed and eyes closed. For a moment you wonder where it’s been; you haven’t seen it all day.

One of its eyes opens and falls on you, and then a secretive smile curls its lips.

_If I told you I never left, would you believe me, sweetheart?_

You walk up the porch steps and take out your house key, but the first of day of senior year doesn’t get up. It stays there, on your porch, and watches you walk into your house—watches you close and lock the door behind you.

And it keeps smiling. It even laughs, like it just heard a good joke.

Does it know something you don’t?

_The year’s only just starting, Cherry. Here’s to hoping it’s a good one._


End file.
